


The Emotion Collection

by Cecil_Salvatore



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (Comics), DCU, Green Lantern - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Batfamily Shenanigans, Continuity What Continuity, Drabble Collection, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-02-07 05:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18614128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecil_Salvatore/pseuds/Cecil_Salvatore
Summary: A collection of unrelated one-shots focusing on my favourite pairs from the Marvel and DC universes that were too short/underdeveloped to warrant their own post. Some may be reused in future works.Chapter Three: Clint and WadePrompt: you put your arm around me and i literally felt my knees buckle, this is so pathetic.A small gesture from Clint makes Wade realise a lot of things he never wanted to.





	1. Departure (BatLantern)

"Please. Please, Hal. Stay."

Hal's heart breaks to hear him; _Bruce_ who has always been so strong, so assured of his every move, cracks in front of him, his aging hand gripping white to his jacket. His head is bent, so Hal can't see his face, but his hand is shaking-- his whole body is shaking-- and Hal has to use all his will power to force himself to uncurl Bruce's fingers. He doesn't let go.

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I can't."

Bruce's head snaps up, his eyes ablaze with fury and hurt, and Hal is sure he's gonna be hit. He braces himself for the pain. He won't fight back. Not today. But the blow never comes. His eyes open and is met by Bruce's own cold blues looking more sad and alone than Hal has ever seen.

"I won't fight you. Not today," Bruce says, as if reading his mind, and Hal almost smiles at the familiarity of that. They'd been able to predict each other, intentionally or otherwise, for years now. "If you're going to leave... If you have to... Then go. I won't stop you."

Bruce turns as if to withdraw, but Hal, stupid and selfish, grabs tighter to his hand, forcing him to stay as he has refused. "Bruce, I," he falters, taking a deep breath. He has to do this. He needs to. It's his final chance to tell him, after all these years of knowing and wanting without ever letting himself take it. "You have to know that I've always... I will always... You--"

"Don't, Hal." Bruce looks down, smiling ever so slightly. "You'll only make this harder." Then his blue eyes, so infinitely deep and vast, the sky Hal never allowed himself to explore, are back on his dark brown ones, and he's smiling properly now, looking younger than he has in years. "We could've been great, couldn't we? If only we weren't always so goddamn stubborn."

Hal swallows tightly, gritting his teeth. "We were. I wouldn't have it any other way." He smiles, the gesture ripping his heart apart. Bruce's smile wavers for a second, emotion overtaking him.

"Don't forget me," he whispers finally, his grip tightening on Hal's hand in a way that says so much more than his voice can convey. Hal presses in closer, desperate for another try, for a shot at the life they'd both denied each other. "Come with me, Bruce. Don't stay here."

"I can't. You know I can't." The strength has returned to Bruce's gaze, and his voice warms with conviction that Hal both loves and despises. "My home is here. I can't leave Gotham to die on her own."

Hal knows, of course he knows. He's heard this all before, but still. He'd hoped.

He smiles fondly. "Stubborn old fool."

"Reckless, irresponsible bastard."

They both grin, then say together, "Don't ever change." The laugh that follows is light, unburdened by the future ahead. When it inevitably dies away, Hal grows serious. "If you ever change your mind, at any time, contact me. I'll come for you immediately, I swear it."

Bruce smiles, indulging his old friend, even when he knows the day will never come. "How will I find you?"

"Oh, Spooky," Hal grins, finally letting go of a hand he will miss for years to come, and allowing his body to be enveloped in green, "You don't seriously think you can get rid of me that easily, do you?"

And, with that, he bursts into the air, light as a bird, soaring into the unknowable known without a single glance back. He doesn't hear Bruce when he whispers, "I love you, Hal Jordan."

 

 

When Hal meets him again, years later, when Bruce is in a wheelchair and Hal looks like he's twenty again, he doesn't hesitate. His lips smash against Bruce's chapped ones in a fevered, fervent need, years and years of pent up emotion and feelings left unsaid spilling forth in a single, unstoppable moment. Bruce tries to push him away at first caught off guard, but then resistance gives way to desire, and he snatches at Hal, trying to hold him closer, to memorise his every pore and curve. They pull apart only when Bruce needs air, coughing amidst a wide, unrepentant grin that Hal still finds beautiful.

"What you do to me, Jordan," he laughs, a sound that fills Hal with affection, "People already think I'm crazy. I don't need them thinking I'm some sort of pederast on top of that."

Hal creates a construct that envelopes both of them, helping ease the weight on Bruce's lungs. "Since when have you cared what people think?" He asks with an all too familiar smirk.

"Since I stopped being able to use the bathroom without help. Now are you just gonna stand there and smile or are you going to do something more worthwhile with your mouth?"

Hal chuckles freely, throwing his head back. "I have missed you, you stubborn old fool."

Bruce's expression warms. "I've missed you, too, Hal."

When their lips connect a second time, gentle and sweet, Bruce finally feels home again. 


	2. The Artistic Merit of Words (Cass and Dami)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a new day dawns on Gotham, Damian Wayne contemplates his relationship with his sister and gets his nails painted.

Of all in the family, Damian found Cassandra to be the loudest.

When he’d first arrived, he’d expected it to be the ones that never seemed to be at a loss for words, always prattling on about inconsequential matters like Dick, or ready with a quip or comeback for every situation like Steph; but, no. It had been constantly watchful, deceptively quiet Cassandra.

This had perplexed him, at first. How could someone who had silence etched into her very breath still have such a cacophony of sound within her? It was like a flock of tamed birds, echoing in her every step and broiling at her slightest touch, yet, unless you were looking– really looking–, remaining entirely undetectable.

Her eyes, he thought, gave it away best, full of expression and barren in their sincerities. They were bright spheres of unutterable thoughts, fierce opinions and relentless ideas that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, destroy with the direct simplicity of words; thoughts that couldn’t be heard, only felt.

The first time he’d seen her dance was the day he’d first met her, the day he’d allowed a bomb to collapse a building and tackled her to the ground, screaming for acceptance. Her eyes were a mystery to him them, sometimes they still were, and yet she’d silenced him with them anyway. She’d been angry, and the few words she’d said scathed just as much as they’d soothed.

_“Don’t forget what matters. You’re alive.”_

When she’d come down to find him in the Cave, he’d expected her to reprobate, to inform him of the hundred and one faults and mistakes he’d already been repeating endlessly to himself. To talk as if she was his father. Instead, she’d dropped herself lithely down beside him and stared straight ahead as he continued to fill the subterranean arches with tireless scratches of pencil on paper.

Eventually, his barrier had relented and, in that biting way he’d been so prone to, he’d demanded that she just get on with whatever she wanted to say and be done with it. Her head had tilted fractionally to the side, hair spilling over her cheek like scattered pine leaves across the moon’s river reflection, and she’d stated, quite plainly, “He says you’re a good artist.”

It hadn’t taken him even a moment to know that she’d been referring to his– their– father. He’d realise later on that she’d been placating him, not wanting to distract him with his previous aggravation on bloodlines and biological rights. It also hadn’t taken him long to assume she’d been lying.

He’d realise later on that she hadn’t.

Damian had scoffed and turned back to his illustrated world, but it had been almost impossible to concentrate with her huge black eyes now trained expectantly on him. She never asked to see them, had simply waited patiently until the back of his knees had collapsed like a folded bridge on the harsh concrete, and the pages revealed themselves.

It was probably one of the few times he’d ever felt nervous displaying his art. He often held himself in appropriately high esteem, especially when it came to his artistic abilities, but, for reasons that he had not yet come to understand, it was important to him that she was impressed. The famous Cassandra Cain, who had lived up to and gone beyond what was foreseen of her, subjugating her biological father’s teachings and overcoming the very League she’d been meant to lead. A mirror of his own upbringing, and the obvious choice for comparison to how little he’d achieved.

She hadn’t said a word as her eyes studied the scrawls, pupils darting back and forth as they did while reading, excavating the sketches for some unknown, hidden meaning before flicking up to stare silently at him. If he hadn’t been watching her equally as closely, he might have mistaken it for mockery, but, somehow, he understood.

“Thank you.” It had been a stumbling mutter, clumsy in their lack of use, but they’d been said. She’d smiled warmly at him and leapt to her feet, dashing to the Monitor to pillage one of the many drawers it sat on top of. He recalled asking her what she was doing, and her lifting up a finger. “ _Wait_.”

When she’d returned, cradling a pair of satin shoes in her netted fingers, there had been a bounce in her step and a glow in her eyes. They were a simple pair, without trimmings or embellishments, yet she’d treated them as treasured ornaments, tucking her fingers into the box and ironing out the ribbons between her fingers before lacing them together. Readying herself, she’d taken a breath and begun.

There hadn’t been a note in the Cave, yet, once Cassandra had taken the first steps, it had felt like there was an entire orchestra at her disposal. It was difficult to describe her motions, abstract, mesmerising and eloquent, each graceful sweep of an arm and lift of a leg leaving a stroke of meaning behind like paint strewn on by a brush. She’d soared over the pebbled floor on winged feet and wove the stagnant air with an undeniable electricity, molding the subterranean labyrinth into her performance theatre.

As she’d spun and dipped across the room with poise and alacrity fitting of how she fought, understanding had begun to dawn. She had, in the only way she truly knew how, painted for him; but rather than colour and fascinations of the mind, she’d shown him the depth of her emotions and the simple joy she’d found in conveying pictures and words to another person who saw the same way she did. She’d shown him connection and, where he’d found judgement and unattainable expectancy, she’d felt prehension and family.

The applause he’d given, though suitable and true, had felt cheap in the wake of her elan, and she’d picked up on that, too. What she hadn’t picked up, or rather ignored, however, was his desire to not join her in another performance; which was how Stephanie had returned to find him vehemently protesting his fate as she’d strongholded him into lifts and coaxed him into helping her perfect her saut de chat.

(Somehow, that had lead to a piano being carried into the Cave, and Damian begrudgingly assisting her with her ballet technique every Saturday morning.)

* * *

Tonight, Damian was sprawled on the carpeted floor in one of the Manor’s living rooms, accompanied only by a crackling fire, the soft purring of Alfred the Cat lounging on the deep maroon Chesterfield, and a plate of barely touched cookies courtesy of Alfred the Grandfather. He’d shifted positions a total of eight times now, moving from lying across the sofa to hanging from the chandelier, all in an attempt to finely detail an appropriate gift, when Cassandra pattered in and stole a cookie.

His head lolled back to glare, accusatory, at her mischievous brown eyes as she took a large bite from the biscuit, catching crumbs in her palm and dropping lissomely beside him, daring him to take it from her. He refused, and turned away, a waft of a sigh escaping him.

Cassandra quirked an eyebrow at him, careful to not glance down at his page– she never did unless he gave her express permission– and he shook his head.

“Didn’t you have plans?” He signed, not wanting to speak. Tomorrow would be a family day, which often meant that all the procrastinated upon plans and meetings that had been piling up would be taken care of today so as to ensure there were no interruptions.

Dick was out with Barbara, on a presumed official date (different from the impromptu ones they had nearly every day); Jason had to return a library book, which meant he was breaking in and probably spending the night; Tim was having dinner with his stepmother, a complicated relationship from before Damian; and Bruce was, unexpectedly, out shopping with Stephanie. To Damian’s knowledge, he sought her help with a present, though why he still trusted her after the Catwoman themed Hello Kitty soft toy for Tim’s birthday, Damian would never know.

(Granted, Tim had actually been quite thrilled with it once it was taken off the shelves due to parental concern, but that wasn’t the point.)

Cassandra shrugged her shoulders and smiled lopsidedly in response. Her eyes trailed down to her nails, where Steph had helped her paint little black Bat symbols against yellow sheen at her request. The once clearly defined pictures were now chipped and smudged in an obvious attempt at fixing them. Her shoulders rounded, ebbing disappointment and childlike sadness at the loss.

As he’d found before, Cassandra was the most honest of them all, and this little display was no different. He felt his arms seizing up, and he trained his gaze firmly on his unfinished sketch, pencil tapping rhythmically on the floor. Her huge eyes, eyes that brimmed with a swirling life that he’d tried and failed to replicate, turned to him beseechingly and he scuttled a bit backwards, lips pursing, brows dipping.

“I don’t work with nail polish.”

Cassandra’s mouth slanted upwards in a small smile, the same smile she’d given as she’d devoured the biscuit.

“ _Don’t, or can’t_?”

His eyebrows furrowed a bit deeper, creating harsh contemplative creases in his forehead. It was obvious, more than obvious, what she was trying to do, but Damian found his pride prickling anyway. He snapped his notebook shut.

“Fine. But I’m not copying Brown’s pathetic attempt at art.”

The acrid smell of alcohol filled the air, Alfred the Cat lifting his head, ears flattened and eyes narrowed, to cast a disparaging look at Damian as he swabbed away the chipped remains of Stephanie’s work, his own nose wrinkling. Cassandra rocked back and forth minutely, knees drawn to her chest as a soundless song propelled her motion.

He surveyed the array of colours, sunshine yellow, deep cobalt, violet, black, white, and a sharp robin breast red. Knowing his sister(s), the choice of pigments and the semantics connecting them to the family was intentional. How they had managed to keep one secret identity between them, let alone two, remained a mystery. Beside him, sat his surgical instruments of cotton gauze, toothpicks, and some strange metallic tools with spheres on their tips.

Damian would rather die than admit it, but he was actually rather excited. There wasn’t any point in trying to hide it from her, of course, but he did his best to appear impassive regardless.

“What were you working on?”

He picked up the blue polish, watching the hue shimmer and glean iridescence in the warm light. “Nothing important.”

That was a lie, and she knew it, too, her fingers playing an impatient rat-a-tat on the floor, but, as he’d expected her to, she didn’t press. Cassandra was fairly private about her art, and she respected him when he chose to be about his.

It had to be perfect. All his other siblings, and his father, had received portraits that he was proud of, paintings that captured the vibrance of their laughter or the enigma of their eyes. He knew Cassandra wouldn’t have minded one of similar merit, but it simply hadn’t felt right to him. They were gentler in their emotions, more contained and subtle in their openness. Trying to paint Cassandra was like trying to sketch a storm while standing in its eye.

He pulled thin strips of evening sky over her cracked nails, forming a hazy image of a star speckled canvas lit by squares of light from a sleepless city in his head.

He’d decided he was going to do Gotham, complete with their family crest waving in the mist on her ring finger. Never mind the fact that this was his first attempt; he would get this right, even if he could not the other.

She watched patiently as he went about his painstaking task, only occasionally curling her fingers or arching her brow to speak to him. “ _Two layers_ ”, “ _You need to use the clear one now_ ”, “ _Careful, it drips_ ”, and on and on. Particular nothings that stirred the silence.

After an eternity and several back cramps later, Damian set back on his heels and scrutinised his handiwork. It was indelicate, lacking in the fine shading and minor refractions of light he had pictured in his head, but it was, in its own way, beautiful and true. Cassandra, for one, was thrilled, her feet swinging from left to right as she impatiently waited for them to dry, lifting her fingers up to blow on them every couple of minutes.

“Stop it,” Damian chided, with a raised palm, fighting back a pleased smile, “If the paint shifts, I’m not doing it again.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and then, taking advantage of his fear of ruining his hard work, wrestled him into a hug. He made sure to wretch as her lips connected with his forehead, but even he couldn’t stop the bubbles of laughter that burst forth when she tickled him once her nails had dried.

“You’re as bad as Richard sometimes,” he gasped after, as he tried to heave her carelessly sprawled legs off of his torso. It was meant to be an insult of sorts, but she grinned at him, gratified, and he knew she had caught the fondness behind it. Allowing his back to go flat, he stared up at the spots of light bouncing across the ceiling, watching as they blurred from simple bulbs to drifting fireflies that mingled together. From the corner of his eye, he saw the canvas edges of his discarded pages.

“I was trying to draw you,” he said suddenly. “It didn’t turn out the way I planned for it to.”

Cassandra shifted her weight off him, pulling herself into an upright position. He felt her gaze resting on him, and could map the puzzlement in her unseen frown. His lips compressed, twisting in on themselves. Sometimes, words felt as difficult for him as they were for her.

“I wanted you to know that I know why Father chose you. And that I think it a fine choice.”

The others had had the liberty of conversation, of explanation and, to an extent, permission of granting the duty to her; but they’d never been one for wasting words. Occasionally, though, words became necessary, even if they only to gave clumsy tangibility to things already known.

She’d reached her page, he heard it in the abrupt pause between turns, and, just like that, he was two years younger, an unsure child trying to live up to a fictional ideal in a cold and damp cave. His stomach was a Gordian knot, and he twisted to look as her fingers traced over the inky charcoal lines.

It was similar to the images he’d done of Dick and Bruce, but it didn’t take much scrutiny to recognise the slender frame and the mix of Cassandra’s Batgirl costume with the epitomise Batman one. He’d attempted several versions of her: going between a full cowl and one that only shielded her eyes, a cape that was shredded strips of cloth to the usual one that allowed for gliding, gauntlets or bandages. Though likely the least important part of her evolution, Damian wanted it to be right, to fit her the way it never had Dick, in all her controlled wonder and idyllic wishes of hope.

It was a deceptively unprotected sort of costume, the cape kept from fully covering her front by the pauldrons they were attached to. Her cowl, or helmet rather, was a mix of cloth and armour, with plated stitches connecting the two halves. There were many elements taken from her Batgirl costume, but, in a way, he felt she’d always carry Batgirl with her, even after Stephanie had formally claimed the post.

Cassandra’s grinned wryly at him, her fingertips going white on the spine.

“Almost perfect.”

“Hah. Far from it.”

She rolled her eyes, the way she did when she admonished him, and picked up his pencil. Cassandra was no artist, but he always appreciated her cards and doodles. This time, though, he glowed.

On the page, in a small untouched corner, she’d drawn what could only be a Robin hunched over, a wobbly ‘Tsk!’ written above him. She tapped the figure and drew a line connecting them to the Batman, then to her heart. “ _Perfect_.”

His jaw clenched as he turned away from her, ignoring the warm chuckle that illicited, and cleared his throat loudly. “Well.” A touch high. “That does not fulfill the requirements of a gift, so you might as well choose something else.”

She tilted her head. “ _Anything_?”

He nodded, then almost immediately regretted it as her gaze darted to the glass vials by his side.

The next day brought with it sloppily matching nails and teasing ridicule from his brothers, but that hardly mattered when they, too, had been thrown to the floor and made the subject of Cass’s practice. She didn’t make a sound throughout it all, yet her glee and affection was clear for all to see, doubly so when their father obligingly fanned out his fingers to her touch. When the time came for her to make her oath, kaleidoscopic colours layered on top of one another and seen all around, her eyes said all that needed to be said, and her heart was a symphony.

Plastered on the Monitor’s corner, her first souvenir as Batman, was an intricate depiction of Batman and a cartoonish doodle of Robin. In the warmth of her joy and embrace, Damian really did think that it looked perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was written for a very good and talented friend of mine on Tumblr, @doc-squash, and, if you aren't following them already, I would highly recommend doing so. They're super funny and their art is gorgeous. They actually did a piece based on this fic, so here's the link to that: https://doc-squash.tumblr.com/post/184250715415/cassandra-i-want-to-learn-how-to-dance-let-me


	3. Unspoken (HawkPool)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: you put your arm around me and i literally felt my knees buckle, this is so pathetic.
> 
> A small gesture from Clint makes Wade realise a lot of things he never wanted to.

Honestly, if he'd seen it coming, Wade swore he wouldn't have had as violent of a reaction as he did. Really.

It was only because Clint had snuck in out of nowhere and, completely unprompted, decided that Wade's shoulders were the perfect resting place for his very warm, very muscular arm that his knees had decided, out of surprise, to give way beneath him like that. It was pure and utter shock, nothing else. He certainly had not just _swooned_ at a half hearted, one armed side hug from the second best Hawkeye.

 _Definitely not_.

Anyone who said differently was a liar, and, even if he had gasped aloud and collapsed into Clint's surprisingly broad chest when it happened, so what? He was Deadpool. His body did things he didn't want it to all the time. Like mantling. Which he was doing right now.

Clint lifted his head from his shoulder-- because that was another thing he had deemed appropriate behaviour-- and arched a curious brow at him.

"You okay?" He asked out loud, because, apparently, it was the sort of question that Wade had to be aware of, not one that could be dismissed by him not paying attention to Clint's hands. Not that he ever didn't, but Clint didn't have to know that, especially not now when Wade was trying to keep a plenty more pressing, unexpected discoveries to himself.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he said, straightening and performing artful, complicated gestures with his arms that were decidedly not ASL, "I'm great. Perfectly fine. Why? Do I seem not okay? Are you not okay?"

Clint pulled back a little, and Wade felt an unwanted upheaval of disappointment when his arm shifted away. His heart did a funny sort of jerk in his ribcage, that was probably a symptom of some form of cardiac arrest, but he wasn't concerned. Not that he could for very long, but dropping dead would be a welcome development at this stage.

Rather than unsticking himself from Wade's side, however-- _oh, no? Oh, thank God?_ \-- all Clint did was lift a hand up to his ear to adjust the volume on his hearing aid.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, returning his hand to where it had been lazily sprawled. "You were going a little fast."

Wade didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or yell.

"I'm fine," he said, glad to hear his voice was relatively regular. He made a circle with his hand toward Clint's arm. "Just. What's this about?"

"Oh. Sorry, are you uncomfortable?"

"No," Wade blurted out, maybe a bit too quick, maybe a bit too desperate. "No, it's just that usually I'm the touchy one."

The frown on Clint's face relaxed, replaced with a slightly amused smile that turned up only one corner of his lip. That was doing funny things to Wade's stomach now, but it was hardly a recent discovery. He'd known his partiality for Hawkeye's small crooked smirks for some time now; he'd just never expected it to extend any further than the occasional palpitations during his weaker moments. Apparently, he'd underestimated himself.

His shoulders lost their tension, slumping down as his fear that Clint would suddenly retract, or laugh when he realised, abated.

"True," Clint acquiesced, somehow shrugging even with his arm in place, "I guess I sort of got used to it, 's'all." He tilted his head to him so his fringe, loose from the confines of the cheap hair gel he used, fell across his forehead.

"That okay with you?"

His eyes were a distracting blue, all sparkly and earnest in the evening sun, and Wade thought that he'd have agreed to anything he asked for at that point. The question hung like mistletoe over them, innocent but loaded with inexplicable meaning. Whether it was meaning known to both of them, or conjured in the recesses of Wade's own hopelessly idealistic, audaciously romantic mind, however, he refused to ask, too afraid of the answer. Still, he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and nodded.

"Sure."

Clint's smile grew a bit wider and he nodded back, turning to look out over the rooftop once more. The silence was temperate, comfortable even, but Wade could never keep it, not even when the words he spilled may have been much too truthful for either of them to bear. Not today, though. Not yet.

"What was I saying again?"

Hawkeye snorted, his head lolling back against his shoulder, easy and deliberate. "You were talking about Spider-Man."

"Right. Was I saying how great of a hero he was or was it how he's a real first class jerk sometimes?"

A huff of a laugh, equivalent to a shake of his head.

"Mix of both, really."

Wade smiled, and he didn't have to glance down to know that Clint was doing the same. Hesitantly, he raised his arm to rest around Clint's hip, his fingers shaking until they found relief on the firm arch of his bone, unshakeable and unafraid.

"So the usual then?"

This time, Clint did look up at him, his gaze filled with something that Wade was afraid to name for what it was: fondness.

"Exactly that."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this is and I don't know anything about Marvel, but I love them. Prompt from this Tumblr post: https://bewitchingmemes.tumblr.com/post/183592584911/touch-starved-starters-no-ones-ever-done

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is going to be an anthology of one-shots and random drabbles that I didn't have enough content to make full stories. They're mostly going to be focused on my favourite pairings, but I may post some Gen fics, too. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy it so far!
> 
> (P.S. If you've come from my other BatLantern story, thank you, and I'm sorry for not updating yet. I've gotten really caught up in college and life, and I had to scratch a whole chapter I was working on because it wasn't doing it for me. I am working on a new chapter, but it's probably going to take a while. Thank you, and I'm sorry again!)


End file.
